Gladiatrix

XXXVII

Lysandra was grateful to Telemachus for allowing her to lead the afternoon rituals. This, coupled with her work on translation and copy, kept her mind fully engaged and she understood that this was his intention. It was, she considered, part of the strange destiny the goddess had marked for her. It seemed her life was to be spent in service to the public — first, her Mission, then the arena, now again the Mission and soon to return to the sands.

But for now, it was good that she had a chance to deliver some proper Spartan teaching to the local Hellenes — they certainly needed to hear them. She had heard Telemachus’s rituals during her stay in the shrine and he preached the misguided and liberal values of the Athenians, which verged on the immoral. Yet, for all this, she realised that he was a good man who had her best interests at heart.

Her fame had undeniably increased his congregation: once word had got around the Hellene community that ‘Achillia’ was serving for a brief period in the shrine, the building was packed to the pillars each day. This was right and proper, as Lysandra fought to honour Athene and this was Her shrine. Her fame was a by-product of this worshipful combat and there was no shame in it.

The expatriate community had come to regard her as their heroine; this was unsurprising, as there was not a Spartan amongst them, and she knew that other Hellenes held her polis in such respect that it bordered on reverential awe. To have a Priestess of Athene amongst them, and she a famous gladiatrix to boot, was a great honour to them and they responded with enthusiasm.

As the weeks passed, Lysandra found that she could now think of Eirianwen without tears though the loss still pained her. The memories were hers forever she realised, and they could not be taken from her. But she knew she must also harden her heart.

She could not afford to allow herself such intensity of feeling again, the pain of loss was too great. Love was a madness that none could fight against. The best cure for this ailment was avoidance and Lysandra vowed that this was the path she would tread.

Sleep was also coming to her more regularly: though her nights were never uninterrupted, she had at least some small peace. The night of terror at Nastasen’s hands was still vivid, as was the feeling of helpless anger at being powerless to stop him. She told herself that, though fear was an alien concept to her race, there must have been some lingering trauma of the attack that was causing her nightmares. However, she was convinced it was evidence of the superior Spartan psyche that she had gone some way to overcoming this. She only prayed that one day she could repay the Nubian for his assault.

Lysandra found that her experiences helped her deliver more accessible truths to Telemachus’s congregation. Having gone through more than any of these suburbanites would experience in a lifetime, she was sure that her example would be an inspiration to all those that cared to listen. That her fame and obvious natural charisma made the people pay attention to her words was so much the better.

She refused to allow herself to drift back into the mindset of being a priestess proper. She was a gladiatrix now. That was her path and it would be folly to think otherwise. She confided this to Telemachus as they shared their evening meal.

‘It does not have to be so,’ he said after some thought. ‘You could run from this place, and disappear. Return to Sparta or make a life elsewhere.’

Lysandra was taken aback. ‘That would be a dereliction of duty,’ she retorted.

‘A duty to whom, Lysandra? To Balbus, your owner?’

‘To those people out there.’ She gestured towards the doorway.

‘The people who come here to hear me. The people that take pride in what I do in the arena. And to Athene herself. Did you not say that to fight for the goddess was my true path?’

Telemachus flushed. ‘Yes, but that was before I had come to know you. Then, you were just another arena slave to me and Balbus paid me well to speak to you, to encourage you in your hour of need.’

Lysandra was silent for a moment. ‘I did not know that you had been paid to be my friend,’ she said, unsure of how she felt about it.

‘I was not paid to be your friend, money cannot buy that,’ he said at once and in her heart Lysandra was relieved. She would have felt a terrible sense of betrayal if one of the few people she felt she could trust had been revealed as false. ‘Balbus is not a cruel man, Lysandra, but he trades in people’s lives,’ the priest continued. ‘There is an ambiguity in all of us when it comes to slaves. There must be slavery, after all, yet it is difficult to look at you as a slave now that we have spent time together and become friends.’ He sighed. ‘I would not wish to see you die in the arena.’

‘Have no fear,’ Lysandra said. ‘There is little possibility of that happening. I am extremely skilled and, though your first words to me may have been bought, they rang true for me. You were right in many things,’ she hesitated, ‘and as such, I do not judge you harshly. Furthermore, I am slave only in legal terms. When thousands of people scream your name, it is difficult to perceive oneself as subservient.’

Telemachus smiled at her, a little sadly, she thought. ‘Balbus has been writing to me, enquiring as to your health and state of mind,’ he said. ‘Till now, I have put him off, yet I can see that you are healed in body and spirit.’

‘That is so, Telemachus.’ Lysandra nodded. ‘I would return to my rightful place.’

‘I will miss you.’

He was being honest and this pleased her. ‘You make it sound as if you will not see me again,’ she responded brusquely. ‘I am not a prisoner in the ludus, Telemachus, and you may visit me when it suits you. It may be that I will be allowed out alone as I have shown myself trustworthy in your care.’ She grinned at him. ‘In that I did not flee and start a new life for myself.’

‘You will stay till he responds to me?’

‘Of course. The people must know that I am to depart. I would feel as though I had betrayed them if I just upped and left.’

‘You’re most considerate,’ he mocked gently.

‘And you are most disappointed,’ she countered. ‘Your coffers will no longer be as full after my departure. Evidence, if it was ever needed, of the superiority of Spartan religious doctrine.’

‘We all enjoy an oration on self-sacrifice and discipline, Priestess,’

Telemachus said, his face solemn. ‘I prefer some largesse in my themes, however. Perhaps, outside of Sparta, your thematic content might be considered dull, boring, and perhaps even pompous.’

Lysandra sat upright, her eyes dancing with mirth. ‘Pompous!

I? Do not be absurd, Athenian. Pomposity is not the province of Spartans; it is rather an art form perfected by the effete democracy of Athens.’

Telemachus laughed then, and she joined him. It was some time since she had indulged herself thus and she enjoyed the moment’s lack of decorum. ‘Come.’ The priest stood. ‘We should share a few drinks in the town tonight.’

‘Yes,’ Lysandra agreed. ‘That would be most pleasant.’